Paul Cleave - The Killing Hour

Or someone.

I dig my feet and hands into the slippery ground and push upward. I stand and run as hard as I can at Landry. He sees me, raises the gun, and pulls the trigger. My eyes flare red as the blood I’m about to lose surges past my brain, but the gun only clicks because it hasn’t followed the sound of a double crunch. That means even though there’s still ammo in the shotgun there’s no shell in the chamber-I’ve seen enough movies to know this. So nothing happens except this small clicking noise, which is the sweetest sound in the whole world. I hit him at full speed, first lowering my head and shoulder to make the most of the impact. I connect with his chest; the flashlight pops from my hands as the gun pops from his. My momentum drives him into a tree. His head snaps back into it.

I push myself away. The flashlight shines in my eyes for a few seconds before moving over to Landry. He looks totally out of it. If he’s really lucky I won’t turn the shotgun on him. If he’s really lucky we won’t leave him out here to freeze to death.

“I’ve never been so happy to see you,” I say, turning toward Jo.

“Don’t get happy yet,” she says, crunching the shotgun and pointing it at me. It wobbles in the air as she tries to control it. She’s never held a shotgun before, but the mechanics are simple enough to figure out-pump, point, and shoot. She bends down and picks up the flashlight, which was sitting next to the rock she hit Landry with. She moves the beam onto my face, making it difficult for me to see her. I want to hug her, but I can’t because of the handcuffs. And she’d probably shoot me.

She turns the flashlight back to Landry. Blood is running down the side of his neck and down the left side of his forehead. He’s trying to lift a hand up to his head, but it keeps flopping back down to his side.

“We need to help him,” she says.

“Do we?”

“Who is he?” she asks.

“His name is Detective Inspector Landry,” I say, “and Detective Inspector is a man who has finally seen too much in this world and wanted to put it right. Except in this case he got it all wrong.”

Landry sags a little more, tips onto his side, and ends up with his face in the dirt. I don’t know how calm I’m sounding, but Jo is looking at me as if I’m the one who’s got it all wrong. Perhaps I sound flippant, even dismissive. Yeah, just another trip into the woods. Yeah, just another psycho.

“He must have been really sure you did it to have brought you out here,” she says.

“Is there something you want to ask me?”

“Tell me again that you’re innocent.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Tell me why Detective Inspector Landry didn’t think so.”

“Because he’s a madman,” I say. I look down at him. He looks blankly back at me, still trying to hold on to consciousness. Water and mud are splashing over his cheeks.

“Thanks for following,” I say, looking back to Jo. “And thanks for saving my life. How did you get free?”

“Does it matter? You’re just lucky I decided to follow you to the police station.”

“Some police station,” I say, looking around.

“Lucky I followed anyway, huh? You’d be dead right now if I hadn’t. It was pretty obvious what was going on. Problem is I didn’t have my phone. I had no choice but to follow.”

“You had a choice,” I tell her.

“Don’t make me regret it. Come on, let’s get him onto his feet before he ends up dying out here and then I’m in the same situation you thought you were in.”

The gun moves around in her hands; she’s either shaking from the cold or from the shock of saving my life. I check Landry’s pocket where I saw him put the keys. So far he’s had nothing to say since being struck twice in the head. I like him this way.

The lock seems smaller than the key as I try to work the handcuffs. My hands are shaking so much that the tip of the key keeps chattering against the bracelet. Jo isn’t offering to help. I slide the key around until finally it fits into place. Then I go through the same drama with the second bracelet. When I’m free I snap them onto Landry’s wrists. He doesn’t complain. He’s starting to groan. He folds his hands over the top of his head. He seems to have forgotten where he is, either that or he doesn’t care anymore. He stares past me at the cave where it took a team of people two days to find a dead girl. I put the keys into my pocket.

“We need to get him some help,” Jo says.

“This guy just tried to kill me. I’m not taking him anywhere.”

“We’re taking him to a hospital, Charlie, and then we’re going to the police.”

I look at her face and then at the gun and I like this combination a hell of a lot better than the last one. “I’ll be charged with murder.”

“If you’re innocent you won’t be. Anyway what sort of murderer would bring a policeman to a hospital under these circumstances?”

“So you believe me.”

“Let’s just say I’m more open to strange things happening.”

“Glad you’re on my side,” I say.

“I’m not, but if we leave him here he’ll die.”

Then we should leave him here. I start to help him to his feet, but his legs are like jelly. He can’t take any of his own weight and I can’t take all of it. I’m weak from the cold and it’s going to be hell carrying him back to the cabin. If he dies on the way I’ll dump him where he lands and hope Jo doesn’t shoot me for it.

“You’re sure you don’t want to carry him?” I ask.

Jo doesn’t answer.

“Jo?” I hoist Landry onto my shoulders. I stagger at first, trying not to slip across the wet ground. My thighs start to burn. Landry has to be at least ninety kilograms. If lifting him is this hard, carrying him will be impossible. It’s time to revisit this whole idea. Landry made his bed, he can sleep in it. It’s not my fault the sleeping will be in the middle of the woods.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” I say, speaking louder as I turn around.

“You’ve got that right, partner,” the tall figure says. He’s wearing black clothing, has dirty skin, long black hair, a scraggly beard, bushy sideburns, and he’s standing next to Jo.

This is the man who I thought I had killed.

This is the monster in a world that, according to Jo, doesn’t have monsters.

Jo doesn’t have the gun anymore. Instead now it’s pointing at her.

Watching, watching, Cyris is waiting and watching, yeah, yeah, things are working out well, really well, and the rain keeps on falling in the forest, but he doesn’t mind the rain, he loves the rain, the rain is very cool, except for when it’s not. He thinks of a time when he went swimming and saw a dog drown, his dog, the damn thing was old and couldn’t swim worth a damn, but she sure could sink like a motherfucker. Thinking of the wet fur makes him start to itch. He can’t stop wondering what color the inside of his soul would be-then wonders if he has one at all. Would it be blue or gray?

He thinks about how that wet dog felt beneath his fingers as he held it down. If the dog could talk it would tell him to look out for other dogs because sometimes they can be rabid, sometimes they can really tear you apart. Thinking of the wet dog reminds him that it’s raining. He hates the rain. He’s wet and he’s hungry, but this doesn’t worry him because he’s entertained, yeah, yeah, entertained by this hilarity, because all of this is nothing but funny. It wasn’t supposed to be, it was supposed to be simple, nice and easy, and it has become nothing but. People say if you don’t laugh you’d cry. In his case he likes to laugh and make other people cry. Then he likes to do worse to them. The shotgun is in his hands and it has a nice weight too, what he used to think of back in the army as a life-ending weight. Whether he uses it or not is up to the weatherman. Everything is up to the weatherman and that makes Cyris jealous. It makes him angry because the ability to choose who lives and dies should be up to him.